


hold on (you will be safe)

by TigerMoon



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Frottage, Gay Sex, Hostage Situations, Hot Springs & Onsen, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Character Death, Misuse of Mining Equipment, Oral Sex, Political Alliances, Pre-Canon, Secret Marriage, Situational Humiliation, Whump, because there is one and it's called porn, did I mention the happy ending?, mild sexual harassment, one of the characters is basically Tyrian Lite so he gets his own warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerMoon/pseuds/TigerMoon
Summary: This was supposed to be special, a surprise honeymoon. But when a group of disgruntled SDC miners kidnap Ozpin two days before Yule, Qrow finds himself battling politics, Jacques Schnee, and his own worries to find him. Because when Yule comes, Ozpin's time will run out for good.*“My name is D,” the man in red states. “And this isnothingcompared to the shit Jacques Schnee has been putting his workers through! Thirty-seven people have died in the West Solitas #3 mine alone this year!”James is already typing missives to his team. Qrow’s eyes never leave the screen, how Ozpin sags against his captor, how thin his grip on consciousness is. How his unfocused gaze never leaves the camera—as if he’s staring directly at Qrow from miles and miles away.Hold on, Oz,he prays.Please, please just hold on.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Ozpin
Comments: 23
Kudos: 62





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuxInvictus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxInvictus/gifts).



> So! This is for the ozqrow Secret Santa! The prompt was 'Ozpin get kidnapped/held hostage' and, uh. I'm gonna go whole hog with a trope like that. But this is also Christmas, so there has to be a happy ending.
> 
> I didn't expect it to be this long, which is why it's being split up. Think of it like a fanfic advent calendar.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

"Not having fun, Oz?"  
  
Ozpin took another champagne flute from his waiter and swirled it thoughtfully. The corner they had chosen was one of the few spots in the ballroom not designed for perfect acoustics, which thankfully meant they didn't have to raise their voices over the classical orchestra. "I always enjoy an opportunity to catch up with good friends, James," he chided. "And if I must suffer through a certain amount of politics to do so, then…" He tilted his flute towards him before drinking.  
  
Beside him, James Ironwood hummed as a flurry of whirling dancers passed them by as they watched. Decorated from floor to ceiling in crystals and blue trimming, the Schnee Manor was an overwhelmingly garish display of wealth at the best of times. Tonight’s grand white-tie gala to celebrate Yuletide went beyond garish into macabre. Soaring signet blue banners displayed the Schnee emblem via hard light Dust embroidered into the cloth. Some of the most expensive foodstuffs in all of Remnant were spread out on low tables—lobster from northern Solitas, marinated in cognac; caviar topped with slivers of white truffles and tiny specks of fire Dust-infused sea salt; native buffalo steak carpaccio hand-carved at the table. All the elite of Atlas were in attendance; the Vale Council had insisted on sending a member to ‘foster cooperation’. What they had really meant was ‘keep Schnee happy so he doesn’t raise Dust prices.’

Of all the Vale council, Ozpin’s presence carried the most weight behind it, what with being both a member and the headmaster of one of Remnant’s Huntsman academies. Not that he enjoyed much, if any, of this duty. The commendations and medals he’d earned in three lines across his breast, spots of color against the black of his tailcoat; the idle listening to people trying to one-up each other on their wealth; the casual racism and classicism he was still, centuries and centuries later, trying to stamp out. And then there was the talking. Oh, he could do it. Manipulating people into thinking he was giving them all of his attention and real insight into himself while revealing absolutely nothing was all part of the game. Better still, it was one he was very, very good at.

That didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

His entertainment was in the little rebellions: Jacques’ face when he’d realized Ozpin had dared wear his signature green as a waistcoat rather than the traditional black, a green silk opera scarf tossed over one shoulder; speaking with his daughters, drawing real smiles from them after an evening far too long for such young girls; made silly faces at baby Whitley until he laughed; the tips he kept sneaking the waitstaff when their supervisors weren’t looking. He'd finally— _finally_ —managed to escape the endless parade of handshaking and platitudes and Jacques, who was a category all unto his own, and the relative quiet was a nice reprieve.  
  
His waiter, an unnervingly flirty young man with bright orange hair, was quick to replace his champagne when he finished it off. The wink and the lascivious glance, however, he could have done without. James pointedly did not laugh and Ozpin pointedly did not react beyond stepping on his foot.

“A little extra, don’t you think?” he asked when the man had waltzed away. “To give everyone their own personal waiter?” He pursed his lips and took a sip of his champagne—Jacques had picked a bitter varietal for this party. “Especially one so… _that_.”

“This is Jacques we’re talking about. Still, I haven’t noticed many others get the same treatment.” James flexed his gloved fingers around his whiskey glass. “Jacques may be trying to curry favor with you.”

Ozpin snorted. He was quite warm and amused, a little lightheaded, the multiple glasses of wine finally boosting him beyond the point of tipsy. “I doubt that. He was nearly apoplectic when he realized I’d dared wear _green_ to this event. At least you get to be colorful.”

James laughed. “Not sure if a dress uniform counts as colorful here, Oz.” He sipped at his whiskey. “Heard anything back from Qrow yet?”

The amusement faded into soft melancholy. “Not since this morning. He sounded so excited when he called, something about a surprise and that he’d meet me here, but....” It wouldn’t be the first time their estimates had been wrong, though, especially with Qrow finishing up a mission in Mistral.

It was funny, really. They’d been together for years. Married six months, without a break to celebrate beyond the sparse evenings between missions. He shouldn’t have been surprised, or dismayed, and yet.

And yet Ozpin had spent those past holidays alone, before Qrow, tired and lonely and cold. Yule was for families, a chance to celebrate coming together against hardship—was it so selfish to want him here for their first real holiday as a family?

Gods, he was pathetic.

“He’ll be back soon,” James said, a frown creasing his brow. “In fact—”

“Sir?”

His waiter had returned, but not with drinks. His fingers fidgeted over the side of his empty tray as he bowed. “The lady of the house would like to speak with you, sir. Privately.”

The two shot glances at each other. “Willow? She left over an hour ago,” James said, brow furrowed. “You don’t think anything could be wrong, do you?”

“Damn.” Ozpin rubbed his temples against a sudden wave of dizziness. “No. She was well into her cups when I spoke with her earlier and I doubt that’s changed. For all I know she wants to discuss that damned magazine article like everyone else on the planet. I hope that’s what it is." Being voted ‘Vale’s Most Eligible Bachelor’ for the third straight year was great for publicity, but hell on his personal life.

Qrow, damn him, thought it was hilarious.

James raised an eyebrow. “If you’re that worried, I could go with you—”

“The lady said she wished the meeting to be private, sirs,” the waiter interrupted with a leer.

"Despite all appearances, James, I am an adult," Ozpin deadpanned, then sighed and lowered his voice. “Makeup doesn't hide every bruise. I fear she may need a bit more help than a shoulder to cry on. I’ll probably leave when I know she’s safe; I won’t be in the mood for this after.”

James plucked the flute from his hand and nudged him on. "I’ve offered to help her leave many a time. Please let her know that offer still stands. Just make sure to ping me when you leave, okay?”

Ozpin walked away with a wave, ushered forward by the twitchy young man before him. “Did she give any indication what this was about?” he asked as they slipped out of the ballroom and down a dim corridor.

“I’m afraid she doesn’t deign to tell us about her personal matters, sir. But if I may be so bold, she seemed quite upset.” Boxes and cleaning supplies lay in a pile about the first few rooms. A thin layer of dust covered the scattered statues framing doors along the hall. Ozpin slid a hand over one, a figure in an ornate gold Vacuan breastplate with high arched helmet, crested with peacock feathers.

 _I remember when we made these. The artistry behind it. The meaning. And now it’s stashed and forgotten in Jacques Schnee’s back hallway_ _._

He turned away from it, unsettled. The Schnee Manor wasn’t that familiar, but he had memorized the routes during his first tour of the property. And no area in constant use would be allowed to get a speck of dust on it, much less the thin layer that had settled on some of the statues. Very little light, too, save for the moonlight streaming bright through the windows. He stepped past a spider skittering along the floor, his cane echoing _click-click_ as it tapped beside.

Something about the entire setup felt wrong. The King of Vale was a wary smudge in the back of his mind, as if not quite there, and that was enough to set his teeth on edge. He knew he was tipsy enough to accentuate every rogue emotion; paranoia was a bit of a constant companion on his best days, much less when he was stressed and inebriated. “I don’t think I’ve been down this way before,” he mused.

“It is not often used, sir,” came the reply, the waiter taking his elbow in an overly familiar way when Ozpin stumbled. “Mostly for storage. The lady of the house was… concerned the master would not take kindly to this meeting.”

Irritated, increasingly light-headed, Ozpin tried to draw away without being rude. “Are we almost there?” he asked as they passed by windows covered by heavy drapery.

“Madam is in the next room, sir. I’ll be happy to enter with you if you’d like?” Lamplight spilled from under the door in stark contrast to the darkness about them. The door looked like all the others in the hallway: simple wood, painted to match the décor. Faint unhappy noises came from behind it, feminine and indistinct.

“No. No, thank you.” Ozpin braced himself against the door, his head spinning—had he really had that much to drink?—then rapped his knuckles against the door before pressing it open. “Mrs. Schnee? May I—”

A flash of light, a sharp, stunning pain—

—darkness.


	2. Chapter I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He couldn’t feel Ozma. He couldn’t feel his magic._  
>  'This is very, very wrong.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.
> 
> (additional trigger warnings: blink-and-you'll-miss-it mention of drugs and homophobic language)

* * *

“Hey… coming to… over here?”

Sound was the first sense to come back to him—sluggish, muffled under the ringing. Voices: indistinct, unfamiliar.

“Finally… too long. How much did you _give_ —”

“... believe we drugged a godsdamned Huntsman? Fuckin’ … concussion on top….”

“—crazy? If Ironwood finds us, we’re fucked!”

Ironwood? Who… oh. Shivering, he shifted a bit, his forehead pressed against something freezing cold and the back of his head sticky and damp and throbbing with his pulse. Right. James. Hadn’t he just seen James? His head felt full of cotton and cobwebs as he strained to remember—remember—what was he trying to remember?

“Like Irondick’s gonna come down here himself and get his precious robot hands dirty.”

The Gala. Jacques Schnee’s ridiculous Yuletide ball. He’d spoken with little Winter and Weiss, just to make them smile. Talked with James, wished Qrow would save him from it all. Went to talk with Willow and—and there was pain, and—

_This is wrong._

With a Herculean effort, Ozpin opened his eyes; a lance of merry fuck-off pain stabbed through his skull as he adjusted to the light. Ah. He was face-down on the floor, breathing in dust bunnies and the scent of old, rank sweat and mechanical oil. That didn’t seem right. Neither did the floor, metal and riveted in contrast to the marble tile of Schnee’s grand foyer; the tightness digging into the creases of his lips and jaw; the warped material binding down his tongue. He reached out for his Aura and found nothing but darkness, a hollowness down to the place where Ozma should be.

He couldn’t feel Ozma. He couldn’t feel his _magic_.

 _This is very,_ very _wrong._

The voices grew quiet, the air electric. Anticipatory. Like the second before the predator strikes. “Get him upright,” a rough voice demanded. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Hands gripped his shoulders—rough, tight—and hauled him up so fast the world spun. Ozpin could barely make out four (five?) dark figures backlit by flood lights before he was unceremoniously shoved into a metal chair. His wrists twisted helplessly behind his back as he tried to get up, handcuffs a size too small—

Oh.

Oh no.

 _I’ve been kidnapped._ The thought came in a sudden burst of clarity. _I’ve been—_

“Well, well, well.” Someone leaned a floodlight forward; squinting, his eyes watering at the brightness, he finally ducked his head with a grimace to blink the huge white spots out of his vision. “Professor _fucking_ Ozpin. Apologies if the accommodations ain’t as nice as what you’re used to.”

A chorus of mocking jeers rose up at that.

The tallest of them, impossibly broad and deep-voiced and dressed in red so dark it almost looks black in the shadows, stepped forward to block out the light. “Supposed to be the mightiest Hunstman in all of Remnant. Talks all about unity and fairness and caring about the ‘common man’. Pretty words for a pretty boy. Get to travel, get that ‘hero worship’. Feels good, I bet. Hobnobbing with that rich fucker Schnee up in Atlas while he’s _killing his workers down here!_ ” Lashing out, he dug his fingers into the wound at the back of his scalp and violently jerked his head back. Ozpin’s eyes watered with pain, his involuntary cry muffled by the gag. “But those’re all just words, ain’t they? _Real_ Hunstmen don’t give a fuck about anyone if they ain’t getting paid, now, do they?”

Ozpin grit his teeth and swallowed back bile at the stench of the man, rotgut and stale sweat. _Godsdammit, Jacques, what have you done?_

“Sixteen Faunus’ve died down here in the past month _alone!_ What does Schnee do for the families? Jack. _Shit._ He don’t care. None of them care, and you better hope to _hell_ they learn how.” He was close enough now that Ozpin could count the capillaries in his eyes. A disgraced Huntsman, from the way he carried himself. Bandit tribes didn’t exist in Solitas, and while many of the people of Mantle knew how to fight, coordinating a kidnapping in a country as technologically advanced as Atlas required education. From the way they had modified their mining equipment to how they behaved, he wasn’t the only one, either—and that made things far more dangerous. “’Cause if they don’t learn to give a shit about _us_ , Professor, then we don’t have a reason to give a shit about _you_.”

Muted, unable to reason with him, Ozpin ground his teeth against the fabric in his mouth, testing its strength. The gag cut so hard into his jaw it ached, enough that Ozpin knew the corners of his lips were bleeding. They didn’t even consider him a person at this point, but a tool to be used for one goal. What happened to him relied on how much Jacques and the Council bent to their demands, and how willing his captors were to hurt someone.

They had already proven they were quite willing to do the latter.

Ozpin forced himself away from that thought and glared the man down despite his shivering, clung to one quiet hope: _Qrow will come for me._

_Qrow will come and I will be safe_ _._

“Oooh, I think he’s mad,” another drawled. She wore his tailcoat over her mining gear, his emerald green waistcoat cinched tight underneath. The purple scales covering her hands glittered in the light. “I’m almost scared.”

“Seriously, Z? Of a pretty little queer like him?” a third one piped up, dark and amused in blues and greys from head to toe. He knew that voice, the bright orange hair—the flirty waiter from the Gala. He winked at Ozpin, idly nibbling at his bottom lip. “Twenty Lien says he’s sucking Ironwood’s dick.”

“And thirty says he takes it up the ass. Hey, D, we weren’t expectin’ to reel in a fish this big. What’re we doin’ with him if Schnee doesn’t pay up?”

‘D’ rolled his eyes, scoffing. “I don’t give a shit what you do with him _now_ —” he snapped, and before he could finish the sentence Ozpin reared his legs back and kicked him across the room.

The lights shattered on impact, plunging the room into chaos. Ozpin was on his feet and racing across the room when an electric shot rang out above his head. A second, its crackling trail illuminating the room—“Get him!” someone screamed amidst the sound of boots on the floor. The third shot cut a line across his cheek before shattering against the wall and he was inches from the door when Z tackled him from behind and Blue melted out of the shadows to slam him into the floor. The world spun in circles; he was still heaving for breath when emergency lights went up, furious red. Blue kicked him over on his front.

“Get the camera,” D wheezed, his voice strained as he hauled himself up. “We’re rolling.”

“But we’re not—”

“ _Get the camera!_ ” D dragged Ozpin back to where they were and shoved him back into the chair. His hand gripped him by the throat, ragged fingernails piercing the skin as he squeezed. Ozpin thrashed, frantic, panicking as D cut his breath down to a thin, high wheeze. “You little bitch,” he snarled, bearing down. “We were gonna do this the easy way. Take a few photos, make a few demands, let you go without a fuss. The whole world’s gonna pay attention, after all.”

His lungs struggled, desperate for air, _let go of me gods let go_ —

“But you don’t want to play nice, now, do you?” D let go. Air rushed back to him in gasping breaths, muffled by the gag. He trembled, hunched forward, and hoped it was mistaken for shivering in the cold. _I will survive this_ , he told himself, pulling the oxygen into his lungs. _My Aura will return. My magic will return._

_Qrow will come for me._

A fifth member of their party slipped between the floodlights, a well-worn video camera perched on her shoulder and grey husky ears laid back against her skull. “Rolling in three, boss.”

_Qrow will come for me and I will be safe._

Ozpin forced himself to look up as D cracked his knuckles against the palm of his hand. “That’s okay, pretty boy,” he said. “Neither do I.”

He took in a deep, painful breath and braced himself.

_Please hurry._

* * *

Qrow beat his wings hard, stalling in the air behind a pillar for a second before his body gracefully shifted from crow to human. He dropped from the balcony, ignoring the complaints from Jacques at his shoes scuffing the atrium floor. “No trail,” he said, shivering and dripping snowmelt. “Whoever it was either took a car or they they have a Semblance that lets them travel unnoticed.”

Technicians and Atlas military personnel barely glanced up at him as he stalked across the atrium. Decorated from floor to ceiling in crystals and blue trimming, the Schnee Manor was an overwhelmingly garish display of wealth at the best of times. The day after a gala was no exception. Most of the decorations were still up, calm and luxurious and mocking of the fact that not ten hours before, one of its most influential guests was kidnapped right underneath security’s collective noses.

James shook his head as Qrow approached. “We have the forensic analysis back on the scene,” he said. “You can take a look, but our kidnappers were more than thorough. They didn’t leave a trace.”

“Fuck.” Qrow took the scroll and thumbed through the information, his teeth grinding together. It wasn’t much. Security footage had recorded him stumbling down the corridor around 8:27PM, with someone dressed as a waiter by his side. At 8:32, Ozpin stopped in front of a walk-in linen closet—and then the cameras cut out.

He had seen where it happened in person. Several scuffed footprints—dress shoes, boots—twisted enough to indicate a brief struggle. Another handprint, and below it two circles, a spatter of crimson drying dark on the floor. The analysis didn’t add much more. A man and a woman, by the shoeprints, the man wearing the same dress shoes as every other waiter in the manor and the woman wearing the most popular brand of boots in Mantle. Everything else was Oz—forced to his hands and knees, injured enough to make him bleed. Long marks along the floor—they dragged him into the room before vanishing.

They’d used the kindness of his heart against him. And when they hadn’t been sure that would be enough, they’d drugged his champagne with Rohypnol to make sure he couldn’t fight back.

Qrow pulled out his flask and took several long swallows. _Fuck._ _Just godsdamn_ _._ “The waiter?”

“Not part of the staff. Neither was the guard in charge of watching the cameras. We’re going through databases, and I have people tracking them based on visual description, but it’ll take time.”

“Time we don’t have, James. Time _Ozpin_ doesn’t have.” Qrow let his hand rest on the hilt of The Long Memory, the weight of it on his side precious little comfort without its owner. They’d left it behind when they kidnapped him—a deliberate sign, from how it had been laid atop his handprints. His blood ran hot, urging him to fly, to do something useful. To find them and rip them apart limb from limb. Anything but stand around in comfort when Oz could be suffering. His voice dropped low. “They could be torturing him right now. _Salem_ could have him and we wouldn’t know until it was too late!”

James squeezed his shoulder gently. Qrow leaned into it, desperate for the reassurance. “I’m worried too,” he said quietly. “But you know we have to be careful. If we make too much noise, whoever has him could run, and take him with them. Or _worse_ —”

“Sir!” A special operative jogged up to them, snapping off a quick salute. “We’ve just received an encrypted message from an unknown sender. Intel thought you should see it.”

Qrow didn’t even wait for James to react; he raced to the table in a flash, running a hand nervously through his spiked hair. James quickly caught up. “Who sent it? What does it say?” he demanded.

At James’ nod, one of the other soldiers turned the holographic screen around. The message was simply labeled ‘private’, with the sender listed from an anonymous server in Vacuo. There was no comment, just a single attachment—a zipped video file named ‘WATCH ME’, dated three hours prior. Qrow’s stomach twisted itself into knots. “Intel decrypted the video and verified it. It’s authentic.” She bit her lower lip and glanced over at where Jacques was arguing with a pair of special operatives over placement of cables. “We’ve set up a room for you to view it, sir. In private.”

They wound up in Willow’s study, a tight little room with dim lighting and far too many decorative liquor bottles sitting empty on the bookshelves. Qrow perched on the edge of the tiny desk chair, scroll spinning in his hands and the tattoo of _hold on hold on hold on_ echoing like his heartbeat. James, standing beside him, took a deep breath. “Here we go,” he said, and tapped the controls.

The screen flickered to life on Ozpin’s exhausted face.

He looked—better than Qrow had expected, but worse than he’d hoped. Narrowed amber eyes glared up at the camera, pupils unevenly dilated but terribly lucid despite it. Blood made the back of his hair stick up in jagged little spikes, beaded up along a long shallow cut across his cheek. There was a gag in his mouth, the silk opera scarf Qrow had given him for his birthday two years ago, and from the angle of his shoulders they had tied his wrists back behind him. About his throat were a series of angry red marks in the shape of a hand.

A metal collar gleamed green about his neck, visible where they had torn the collar of his shirt open.

“Is that a fucking _Aura suppressor_?” Qrow snarled. “I thought those were only used in prisons!” Aura suppressors were nasty, illegal in the other kingdoms—even after they were off, it could take weeks for the wearer’s natural Aura to regenerate. If it was not permanently damaged altogether.

“That’s the official story.” James looked pale under the light. “They sell for a great deal of money on the black ma—”

A figure all in brick red, taller than James and almost twice as broad, stepped into view—and immediately backhanded Ozpin so hard he hit the floor, chair and all.

Qrow’s scroll cracked under his grip. _Hold on._

Another pair of figures—one of them with shocking orange hair, the asshole waiter that had led him off to be kidnapped—hauled him back up by the arms. His face began to swell on one side, the milky-pale skin curdling violet and the thin cut reopened, but the coldly furious expression on his face never wavered. “I assume I have your attention by now,” the leader of the group said, finally looking into the camera. “And if I don’t—”

His gigantic hand clamped down on the top of Ozpin’s skull. Oz thrashed against him, eyes wide, but with a concussion and no Aura he couldn’t defend himself when the giant punched—once, twice.

A wet crack; the pop of bone and cartilage crunching; and when he let go of Ozpin he sagged forward like a puppet with its strings cut, held up only by the ties hooking him to the chair. Crimson dripped in a reluctant stream down the front of his shirt as he dragged bubbling, pained breaths through the cloth.

“Cut the gag,” Qrow whispered. On screen, Ozpin strangled trying to breathe in, a sound that Qrow knew would haunt his nightmares. “Cut the gag, he’ll _choke_.”

They did. Oz coughed out blood and dragged in one great whooping breath before the leader lifted him up by the hair. His nose was clearly broken, eyes already ringed thin in purple-blue and lips and chin drenched in red. “My name is D,” the leader stated. “And this is _nothing_ compared to the shit Jacques Schnee has been putting his workers through. Thirty-seven people have died in the West Solitas #3 mine alone this year! Twenty-two of them were children under fifteen! And Schnee has done _nothing_ for them but sweep it under the rug to keep his precious profits up!”

James’s fingers flew over his scroll, sending missives to his team. Qrow’s eyes never left the screen, how Ozpin sagged against his captor, how thin his grip on consciousness was. How his unfocused gaze never left the camera—as if he was staring directly at Qrow from miles and miles away. _Hold on, Oz_ _,_ he prayed. _Please, please j_ _ust hold on._

“Well, you’re going to listen now,” ‘D’ rattled on. “You have twelve hours to meet our demands. If you don’t,” and he quirked a vicious grin, “we’ll bring our special guest here back out for an encore performance.”

The video went black.

“James,” Qrow croaked, desperate. “What do they _want?_ ”

“It’s not good.” A second screen flickered to life. A small list, but an impossible one: monetary demands in the tens of millions of Lien; stricter policies regarding human rights violations, extended to the Faunus;a public apology by Jacques, followed by his equally public resignation from the SDC. “They’re asking for... quite a bit.”

Qrow tightened his fingers around the broken pieces of his scroll and tried not to think of Ozpin back there, wherever he was, alone and hurting and Qrow _not there_. “We’re never gonna get these! Jacques won’t take responsibility and Atlas is full of racists and they’d both rather l _et Oz die_ than admit they’re wrong—”

“The first two might not be as impossible as you think.” James turned to him, his expression thoughtful despite the visible anger that thinned his lips. “Jacques is under investigation for labor violations by the Council. It’s just not been made public yet. And the extension on rights is being debated now. Mistral extended theirs, and Vale’s been putting a lot of economic pressure on us to do the same. This might be the push we need to get it through.” He shut the monitors down. “They’re not going to risk killing him, Qrow.”

“… this is my fault.”

“… what?”

“The whole godsdamned reason we didn’t tell the reporters we were married in the first place was to protect _me!_ ” He dragged his hands over his face, trying to block out the image of Oz beaten and staggering for breath. “We were afraid that someone would— _kidnap_ me or use me as a way to get to _him_ and look! _Oz_ is the one in fucking trouble, not me!”

 _Hold on_ , he breathed, digging his hands into his hair and pulling. _Hold on, hold on, hold on._

James laid a hand on his arm, soothing. “Qrow, this has nothing to do with—”

“I should have been here!” But no, he’d been down past Mantle, at the most exclusive hot springs resort in Solitas, getting things ready. They’d never had a honeymoon. Oz had said they didn’t need one, as long as they had been together, but for once Qrow wanted to do something special for him. Something grand. Something better than their stolen nights and long-distance conversations. “I should have _been h_ _—_ ”

“ _Stop._ ”

James rarely raised his voice; Qrow jumped in his seat, startled by the force of it. “Like you said. Oz doesn’t have time for us to sit and point finger, and even if he did he wouldn’t want us to! So save your blame for the bastards that did this.” His eyes hardened. “I know I am.”

“… yeah. You’re right.” And he was. Time was their enemy right now as much as the ones who’d done this. He couldn’t wallow in self-pity, as much as he wanted to. Not when Oz needed him. Qrow pushed himself up and slung Harbinger back in place with a promise of retribution. He glanced over at James. “We’ve got about nine hours left to pull off some miracles,” he said, and slung back a shot from his flask. “Guess we better get started.”

 _H_ _old on for me, Oz. Just hold on._


	3. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to meet ransom demands when they go against an entire kingdom's culture. Qrow and James find themselves fighting the clock—and their allies—trying to find a way to bring Ozpin home.
> 
> But they need to hurry. Ozpin's in far more danger than anyone ever guessed.
> 
> (Trigger warnings for this chapter: this is where the 'sexual harassment' and 'Tyrian lite' tags come in. It's mostly a lot of innuendo and some touching above the shoulders, but I'm tagging anyway just to be safe.)

* * *

For a few hours—minutes, days—Ozpin drifted in and out of consciousness. A blink and Z knelt before him, binding his ankles and knees together. Another, and Blue pressed his lips apart, forcibly tipped water down his throat faster than he could swallow. A third, and his body struck concrete as they threw him into a tiny room. Alone, in the dark with nothing but the aching and the cold to keep him company, exhaustion finally won out.

In his dreams, he ran through a forest of eyes, through ice and shadows and little dead bodies crumbling to ash, endlessly chased by the red specter of pain. A little black bird kept urging him forward when he stumbled, flitting through razor-sharp branches and tugging at his sleeves. Around its neck hung a little green light, and even when the shadows rose up as a flood to drown him the little bird kept singing its heartbreaking song, _you will be safe, you will be safe._

_Just h_ _old on._

* * *

“I’ve told you, what you’re asking is impossible! I have a family to care for, James. Something neither you nor your vagabond friend here would ever understand!”

“And I have a brother-in-law, two nieces, and a—and they’d all be r _eally fucking ashamed_ of me if I let my stinginess get someone _killed!_ ”

“Mr. Branwen, please.” Karyna Rothschilde folded her hands around a paper cup full of coffee and took a long sip. Rumpled from an emergency flight from Vale to Atlas, looking utterly exhausted with deep circles under her eyes and her red hair in a messy bun, the head of the Vale Council still managed to be the most imposing figure in the room. “Mr. Schnee. General Ironwood. I don’t care where the money comes from. I don’t care if it bankrupts this entire godsforsaken _kingdom!_ We entrusted one of our heads of state to your security on a diplomatic mission and _you lost him_.”

“We didn’t lose anyone! He’s supposed to be a Hunstman, isn’t he? If that’s the best your kingdom can produce, then—”

Her olive eyes flashed in irritation. “I suggest you choose your next words very, _very_ carefully.”

“—my point still stands. He was inebriated!”

“He was drugged, Jacques,” James said firmly. “While a guest in your home. And a member of your own security team helped to do it.”

“Your treatment of your workers started this entire mess!” She glared up at him, lips pursed. “Either you do your part to fix this or Vale will ban all Dust imports from the SDC. _Permanently._ ”

Jacques turned a violent shade of puce. “Karyna, you can’t do that!” he spluttered. “No one else has enough Dust to support an entire kingdom!”

“No one company, no. But if we decide to foreclose on your investments in Vale and subsidize a few others….”

“That’s a declaration of war!”

“No,” she snarled, and slammed her coffee down so hard it spilled over the desk, “ _kidnapping and torturing a foreign dignitary_ is a declaration of war! Banning your shady ass? _That’s_ a business decision.”

Qrow turned away from them as they argued, arms wrapped around his stomach to press back the nausea. They’d been at this for hours now. Arguments here, arguments at the Atlas Council building, chasing away reporters, hunting down the slimmest of leads. Taking five-minute naps in trees, shooting back coffee in lieu of solid food. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t rest, not when the sounds echoed in his head every time he closed his eyes: the crunch of bone, the choked, bubbled breathing. A tiny part of him still wanted to believe it all an elaborate prank or an insane dream. That at any moment he would awaken to Oz in his pajamas, leaning against the kitchen counter as he burned bacon with sleepy enthusiasm.

_Hold on, Oz._ It repeated in his head like a mantra. _Hold on._

“—five million Lien!” Qrow turned to see Jacques throw his hands up in the air. “Five million Lien, Madam, and not a penny more. I am more than willing to help ensure Ozpin’s safe return to your kingdom, but I refuse to _bankrupt_ my company and put my family in jeopardy! And I refuse to step down from my company when the only charges against me are wild rumors from the animals in Mantle!”

She put her head in her hands. “Fine. Between that and what Vale is offering, we’ll at least reach their monetary demands. I just pray it’s enough.” The councilwoman sat back up. “We don’t have much time left. I need to coordinate a few things with my staff. If you would, General?”

“Of course. I’ll have my men set up the press conference. Jacques, Councilwoman Rothschilde, if you’ll step outside a representative from the Atlas Council is ready to speak with you both.”

“Oh, I wish to do more than just speak with them,” she grumbled, smoothing down her suit and beckoning Jacques with a manicured finger. “Stuck-up racist—come along, Jacques. I’m writing your speech for you.”

He scurried after her, indignant. “I beg your _pardon_ —”

“She’s fun,” James said as the door closes behind them.

Qrow snorted. _Fun_ wasn’t how he would put it. “Yeah, Oz says the same thing until he gets on her bad side.” He reached for the rings on his finger, sliding them back and forth, the weight of his wedding ring heavy on his skin. “How did the vote go with the Council? She seemed kind of pissed at them.”

James wilted a bit. Leaning against the wall, he rubbed at his forehead, around the metal implant across his brow. “They approved everything but the Faunus measure.”

“Fuckin’ _seriously?_ ” Fury bubbled up hot in his stomach. “That was their number two demand!”

“I know. Qrow, I _know_. I tried to get it through but I don’t have as much influence as you think!” He scrubbed his ungloved hand along his stubbled jaw, looking pained. “The Council is afraid that if they give in too soon, they’ll look weak to the rest of the world. And I agree with them, but they’re going about it the wrong way. Withholding basic rights to our citizens is not a show of strength.”

Qrow swore under his breath. “What about the intel? Did we get anything at all?”

“We did.” James flicked open his scroll to project a holographic mugshot; the image of a weaselly young man with frizzy orange hair and blue eyes hovered there, flipping off the viewer. “This was our waiter at the Gala. He told Oz Willow Schnee wanted a private meeting with him.”

“Benjamin Glaucou,” Qrow read. “Age 29.”

“Born in Mantle. Went through Atlas Academy into the military, was court-martialed at 23 for sexually harassing several of his fellow platoon mates. Once he got out of jail he went to work mining for the SDC. His Semblance makes people in the vicinity ignore him and anyone he’s touching. It doesn’t work if he’s used it on you before, or on video devices.” The scroll fritzed for a second; he smacked it against his palm and it blazed back on. “Long criminal history—theft, multiple charges of assault with a deadly weapon, the list goes on.”

Qrow leaned in for a better look. Some people were born with the kinds of faces that begged to be punched; this one practically begged him to shove Harbinger right between his teeth and pull the trigger. “What about the others?” he asked, flicking a finger through the hologram, right across Glaucou’s throat.

James pressed a button, and a second person appeared—a snake faunus with resplendent purple scales. “Now, this one doesn’t have a criminal record. Violet Zaffre. She’s how we think they got Oz out of the Manor. Her Semblance lets her convert shadows into portals that she can shuffle people in and out of. She’s a security guard for Schnee Dust Company headquarters, which explains how she got into the manor without anyone questioning her presence.”

Taking the scroll from his hands, Qrow brought up the third person: a hulking Faunus man all in red, with his hair parted to display the shaved-down stumps of horns. An inset picture showed the SDC logo branded into the back of his neck. “Dunstan Taurus. No known Semblance but still graduated Shade Academy. No criminal record. Indentured to the Schnee Dust Company, works out of West Solitas #3—that’s the mine he mentioned in the video,” Qrow murmured.

“And one under investigation for unsafe labor practices. Glaucou reportedly lost both legs in an accident there.” James took his scroll back and closed it. “Zaffre’s husband was reported missing at the same time. Reportedly went AWOL. Taurus claims his two oldest children died in a cave-in, but… as you can see, Jacques treats those indentured to him more like slaves.”

Qrow curled his lips in disgust as he went on. “‘Official’ records state those children were never born, but we have proof they’re fake, and we know two humans died ‘misusing equipment’ on the same day. And these are just a few of them. Taurus were right about the numbers. They match almost exactly what we’ve been finding.”

“Mother of—” His guts, already in a twist, knotted themselves further. “And instead of taking the person that screwed them all over, they take Oz!”

“They want attention. Kidnapping Jacques would be an internal affair. It would make the news, sure, but that’s all.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Kidnapping Ozpin, on the other hand, means it gets personal with Vale and that brings an entire kingdom down on us. Now the whole world’s going to be watching Atlas and how they handle this.” James shook his head. “Everyone in Atlas has either been ignoring this issue, or keeping it under wraps for the investigation. To them, it looks like no one cares.”

“And they still don’t!” Qrow’s fingers sought out the handle of Ozpin’s cane and wrapped tight around it, white-knuckled. _Keep it safe_ , he’d said once, _if I die_ —his chest seized, hands shook at the thought. “We don’t know where he is, we’re just now getting leads, and in less than thirty minutes your government is going to get on stage and tell those miners they don’t give a fuck about what they’ve suffered through. James, if they don’t give them what they’re asking for—!”

“—Oz is the one who suffers.” James’ face crumpled, blue eyes shadow-ringed and aching. “The Council won’t give in, Qrow,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry’.” He pushed the door to the atrium open.

“ _James_ ,” he begged, his voice breaking.

“We have a few moments before the press conference starts.” The general didn’t—couldn’t—look up at him. “I’ll... wait for you outside.”

Voices swelled before the door swung shut again. Qrow took a shaking breath, covered his eyes, and let the facade of calm crumble. Just for a moment.

_Please be okay._ He had never been given over to prayer, but he breathed it out now, to whatever gods might be listening to a paragon of misfortune like him. _I’ll do anything, I’ll give anything, just—let him be okay._

_Let him hang on._

His fingers clutched the cross about his neck, traced the emerald gears embedded into the reverse side.

_Please hang on._

* * *

Consciousness crawled its way back to him as slowly as it had left, in fits and starts. Sprawled face-first on the floor, every part of Ozpin ached with cold—his fingertips and toes and tips of his ears were numb, the rest of him shivering so hard it was a miracle he hadn’t bitten his tongue yet. One eye had swollen itself shut; the other was only half-open, puffy and sore. He tried opening them both and was rewarded with a lance of white-hot pain reminding him that, yes, his Aura was still gone and yes, his nose was still very much broken. Lovely.

Cursing, he gave himself five seconds to let the explosive pain ease before he began to move. Hands and legs still bound, he was reduced to pushing with his conjoined legs and using his shoulders for leverage like a worm; after several minutes of struggling and cursing he managed to push himself upright in the far corner. Once there he curled tight in the darkness and pressed the agony of his face against the chill of the wall, desperate for any kind of relief.

… _Ozma?_

Nothing.

_Ozma, damn you, answer me!_

Ozma was used to pain. To suffering. Knew how to deal with it and compartmentalize— _you’ll never do it alone_ , he’d told Ozpin once, very early on, when he was young and frightened of his new life. T _hat’s how you survive._ _I promise, I will be there for you_ _._

_Liar_ , he thought miserably, and shivered.

Half of him was gone, poof, vanished, and he didn’t realize how much of him that really was until it was gone. He felt empty for the first time in decades _._ The Aura suppressor about his neck glowed the soft signature green of his Aura in the darkness, mocking him and his weakness. What was he supposed to do? Nothing left but his wits, stubbornness and—

_Oh._

It was—faint, it was _incredibly_ faint, like wisps of emerald cigarette smoke. It scattered when he reached too hard for it, but when he was still it climbed and wove about his metaphorical hand, thin as spider silk and almost as fragile. So very little of it—but there, actually there.

Ozpin’s breath hitched. _He had his magic_ _._

Patiently waiting for it to gather about, he wasted no time in getting to work. Few of the collective lives that made up Ozma had ever learned healing magic—knight-mages rarely did—but Ozpin highly preferred defensive magic and had insisted on adding healing to his repertoire. Prioritizing what he could heal with what little magic had trickled through, he left the broken nose and cuts and the bruising about his throat alone. Whatever they’d used to drug him would flush itself out of his system on its own. There was definitely not enough magic to conjure up water despite his desperate thirst, nor food for the hunger gnawing at him; but there was enough to heal the concussion and the hairline fracture at the back of his skull. He weaved the gossamer-thin strand about, letting that warmth suffuse him as it eased the horrific pain—

The collar’s Aura alarm blared.

Swearing, he jerked back to escape the noise and hit the wall instead. Not two seconds later the door slammed open; he squeezed his one good eye shut as much as he could against the blinding light that clicked on overhead—not much, it pulled at his nose and oh _gods_ that pain on top of everything else had him breathing back the urge to vomit. There were two silhouettes he could make out, barely, if he counted legs correctly. He might not have.

“Don’t move, _p_ _rofessor_.” A frisson of fear ran up his spine as D spoke. He felt something press against his collar—it immediately went silent, thank the gods—and stayed motionless until the blurry figure above him stepped back a bit. Blue, from the height and the wavy shape of his hair against the light. The white-hot pain squeezing his skull just wouldn’t stop and he had to close his eyes again to breathe it back, breathe it down. “False alarm. Figures you’d sell us a defective one,” D scoffed.

“Like hell. You must’ve squished it when you went all alpha male on the pretty boy here.” Ozpin shuddered as Blue dragged a thumb along the edge of his jaw. “Ain’t real pretty no more, are you?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep from flinching.Oh, he knew he wouldn’t be to anyone else but Qrow, his silver hair matted in blood and dirt, nose clearly misshapen and face half-swelled, clothing filthy and bloodstained. This man, though, unnerved him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Blue kicked him hard when he didn’t reply, stomping on his ribs and driving the breath out of him. “I asked you a question!”

For a moment he just gasped for air, doubled over against the wall. What little magic he had managed to gather while unconscious was gone, used for its purpose and dissipated back to the winds. He’d made so many plans for situations like this—being kidnapped, being held hostage at the school or in public. Plans for managing without Aura, plans for being weaponless. But he had never, never in a million years thought he would find himself without magic, without Ozma, with a man who even now kept . _They’re trying to intimidate me. They’re trying to make me submit—_

The memory nearly blindsided him, then: sitting on the couch with his head in Qrow’s lap, Qrow’s fingers kneading away a pressing migraine— _Words are weapons, Oz_ , he’d said with a wry smile, _and I’m not much for talking. Not like you._

No, Qrow had better weapons in his arsenal. But words were all Ozpin had left.

“You’re—making this harder on yourselves.” Ozpin flinched at the sound of his own voice, thick and hoarse with disuse.

They paused. A flicker of light caught his eye; Blue pulled out a switchblade and started to twirl it in his hand, flicking the blade out and clicking it back in. “Really.” D’s voice dripped with bitterness. “Oh, do tell.”

“I could... be _help_ _ing_ you. Right now.” Ozpin shifted enough to let his head rest back against the wall. His shoulders had knotted up, another burning ache to add to the symphony of pain that made up his existence. Not that anyone would look kindly on what they had already done, even if he did try to intervene, but that didn’t mean the fallout couldn’t be limited. The Faunus in Atlas did not deserve the suffering that they would receive from this event—and they would bear far more of the fallout if it did not resolve quickly. “The Council—”

Blue winked and drew his tongue over the edge of the blade.

Ozpin faltered. Ice poured down his spine.

_Qrow will come for me. Qrow will come and I will be safe._

“Th—the Vale Council has been... pushing Atlas to recognize Faunus rights for years now. Vale passed full civil rights two decades ago. Mistral just expanded rights and installed the first Faunus headmaster of any graduate Huntsman Academy. Vacuo is cracking down on Faunus trafficking. Atlas can’t afford to be seen as the most backwards kingdom on Remnant!” His throat felt like sandpaper, his face throbbed with every breath, and he couldn’t force the quiver of exhaustion out of his voice. “I know the Atlas Council. I know _James._ He will support your cause. He will help you. Together we can sway the Council, but not if you continue this.” D shifted, quiet, watching. “I give you my word as a member of the Vale Council, as a _Huntsman_ , to help you. You will not be the only ones to suffer if this continues.”

The hulking man stared at Ozpin for a long, long moment, considering. “I see,” he nodded, face relaxed, and for just a second that faint spark of hope flared before—“You must think I’m real stupid, thinkin’ I’d fall for that bullshit.”

“Wha—no!” Ozpin threw himself forward, swaying dangerously with the movement. “No, that’s not—you don’t understand—!”

“Oh, I understand plenty. I think _you’re_ the one here who don’t understand.” D plucked the switchblade out of Blue’s hand. “Get ‘im up.”

Ozpin flattened himself against the wall, hackles raised and struggling as he wrenched him to his feet. Struggled harder when the man pinned him, back flat against his chest, an arm slung low around his waist and the other hooked under and around one shoulder. With his legs bound Ozpin couldn’t keep his balance, not without help—but he was more than willing to risk a fall if it meant getting away from _him_.

“Careful,” Blue whispered in his ear. He wrenched his arms back and roughly mouthed the side of his throat, hard enough that he knew he’d bruise. Ozpin’s skin crawled at the awful, far-too-intimate feel, teeth and tongue that weren’t his husband’s hot against his skin. “You keep wiggling like that and, well.” A laugh puffed against his saliva-damp skin, turning it to ice in the frigid air. “Won’t be my fault what happens next.”

_Please no_ _._ Ozpin froze, his breath coming in short, terrified gasps. _He can’t—they wouldn’t_ _—_

Before he could lunge forward and away, D, grabbed him by the ear and wrenched his head back. Flicking the switchblade back open, he pressed the cold metal up so close under his jaw that he could feel the burn of it scraping his skin. “You got an awful high opinion of yourself, _p_ _rofessor_ ,” he rumbled, grinning, and dragged it against the thin, nearly-invisible scruff there. “Guess you got a reason to. Graduated Beacon at seventeen, made headmaster at twenty-one. Councilman by twenty-eight. Yet you ain’t got a Semblance and ain’t nobody’s seen you fight. Kinda makes a man wonder how such a pretty little queer made it that far.”

“I can think of a few ways,” Blue murmured, his breath puffing hot and humid against the nape of his neck, _please don’t please don’t_.

“And now look at you.” D curved the flat of the blade along the contour of his throat, Ozpin unmoving but for the shaky rise and fall of his chest. “Maybe you are that good. Or maybe Benny here’s right and you fucked your way to the top. As long as the Council up there thinks you’re hot shit, I don’t care. But down here? Down here you ain’t nothing. Just a means to an end.”

_Qrow will come for me, Qrow will_ _come_ _—_

“You’re making a grave mistake,” he pleaded. His voice wavered in time with the rapid thump of his heart, racing, held so tight against Blue he could feel the man breathe _ohgods please_ _._ “You’re putting the rest of the Faunus in Mantle at risk!”

“You just don’t know when to shut up, do you?” The knife twisted, point trailing over his jugular, before D pressed the blade in and dragged it down agonizingly slowly, skin and cloth parting with equal ease. Ozpin hissed in pain as it cut from collarbone to navel, crimson painting the line. “This ain’t a fairy tale. You ain’t some savior from the gods comin’ to fix humanity! There ain’t no fixin’ them! The only way anything’s gonna change is if we _make_ it change!”

D dug his ragged fingernails hard into the wound, clawing in, and _twisted_. Ozpin threw his head back, his scream of pain caught between his gritted teeth. “Figures the one time I wanna hear you is when you decide to shut up. That’s fine, pretty boy.” He drawled out the word, _fiiiiine_ , laughing when he shuddered. His eyes cut to the man behind him. “I’ll hear it one way or another.”

Blue nipped his teeth at the shell of his ear the same way Qrow did in the mornings _gods no please_. “I still need to settle that bet about you with Z, don’t I? There’s a bet I won’t mind losing.”

_Don’t touch me don’t touch me Qrow help—_

He dragged in a sobbing breath when D let go. Ozpin screwed his eyes up tight against the sudden liquid burning behind them, breathed hard through the pain with gritted teeth. He refused, he _refused_ to let them see it, no matter how much he wanted to scream until his lungs gave out, no matter how his skin crawled or how the terror seized his heart until he thought it would stop beating—he _would not_ give them the pleasure of seeing him break.

_Qrow please_ , he begged in the hollows of his mind. _I can’t_ _—_ _they won’t_ _—Qrow_ _help me—_

“...D? Benny? What the _fuck!_ ”

The men jerked back as Ozpin’s legs gave out from under him; he hit the ground hard, landing on his knees and sinking to the ground from there, forehead in the dirt and hands clenched tight behind him. The camerawoman from the day before stood in the doorway, her grey dog ears laying back as she looked at him. Her grey eyes softened with pity; shamefaced, he stared back down at the floor, the little crazed lines in the concrete patterned out like tree branches in winter. “What is it, Grisa?” D asked, his voice too casual.

She paused; Blue shuffled another step away from him. “The Atlesian and Valar Councils are about to have a joint press conference. You’ll probably want to watch.”

A press conference. The Vale Council. Numb, unable to comprehend it, Ozpin closed his eyes again. D just sighed. “Benny, call Z and the others and get it up on a screen. You, get this bitch,” and he nudged Ozpin with his foot, “set up just in case.”

Ozpin shuddered, took a breath, let it it out. _Qrow is coming for me_ , he told himself with each exhale.

_Qrow is coming and I am not safe._


End file.
